I met him in a club and his name was Francis
by BlondieBrit
Summary: Arthur, a man struggling to get over his long term ex, Alfred, meets an alluring Frenchman in a club. FrUK happens, angst happens, tears happen.


**I'm in the mood to write something sad, so steampunk will have to wait for a bit whilst I write this baby. Don't worry, it's not going to be very long and I'll be back in the smoggy Victorian London in no time!**

I met him in a club, its name was Free-Fall, and it was one of the less flamboyantly gay nightlife destinations for people sharing in my sexual preference. Those of us who weren't fond of lycra or having it made public that we're gay. That was why I was there, anyway. It looked like any other club, what with loud music, a few bars, and lots of male bodies grinding against each other on a large dance floor that reminded me of an orgy, not that I would know... There were no men dancing in cages, no drag contests or rainbows decorating every surface. It had class. Arguably, the most obvious sign of Free-Fall being a gay club was the incredibly high male to female ratio, especially among those making use of the suspiciously sticky dance floor.

On this particular night, 184 days of re-joining life as a bachelor, (and 2 days since my last state of intoxication), I downed the rest of my fourth whiskey and, in an unusual need to disperse some energy, I headed for the dance floor.

A few grabs, grinds, thrusts and hugs with strangers later, he found me heading out of the crush for another whiskey. An arm soon took me by the waist and eased me back to the dance, back to the men, and I was about to tell him to piss off, despite the leanly muscled arm pressing into my back through my t shirt, but didn't. I'd swivelled my aching eyes, sore both from weariness and alcohol, to the man who currently held me in his arms and a flush spread to my cheeks and my rod simultaneously. He was and forever will be the most beautiful man I ever set eyes on. Francis, though I did not know his name at the time, was in every way my type and I had no existing knowledge that I had a 'type' at all. His heart shaped face was framed by tumbling golden curls and long golden eyelashes. Perfectly manicured eyebrows curved elegantly over deep blue eyes, both bright and dark at once, glittering as they were under the lights of the club. He smiled, a perfect set of teeth that succeeded at the seemingly unattainable balance of white but not dazzling, nothing fake or signs of neglect to his health. My own crooked teeth suddenly felt inadequate, as did my scruffy hair and thick eyebrows, not to mention my scrawny arms and legs. I hated how I looked, this man must be so drunk to be with me, or perhaps it was a dare. So when a voice as smooth as silk and, to my (secretly pleasant) surprise, French, sounded in my ear with the words, 'You are too adorable to be dancing alone! I'll keep ze lonely ones away from your derierre.' I didn't know what to say. He was already swaying and letting his incredibly silky hair (everything was silky about Francis, if silk were a person, he would be it), delicately fly around his head and shoulders as he turned his head to the bar briefly and then back to me. I soon found myself being pressed against him, feeling an impressive bulge in his, well whatever lyra thing he happened to be wearing. It rubbed against mine and I moaned before I knew what I was doing. I was a little drunk, you see. Control over my actions was not at an all time high.

He responded to my moan by stroking a manicured nail over my jaw, not to hurt or scratch, just to feel. I looked into his eyes, for we were the same height and I just wanted to see those eyes, his entirety, in a setting other than a club. If we met in a tearoom it'd have been so much more romantic…

The eyes were looking back at me and his hands held me even closer, till they dropped the bass in whatever modern song was on, and both of us felt a sudden electric current spring between us and I leant in for a desperate kiss, my hands climbing up his chest and around the back of his neck, burying into his hair, just as he roughly pulled me against him and our lips met. It was a sexy kiss full of lust and alcohol, and we were getting jostled by other dancers so it wasn't particularly tidy, either. But with our arms and legs around each other, feeling the music and dancing sending vibrations to places that didn't need such assistance at the moment but enjoyed it nonetheless, I felt a little beard scratch at my chin that I had failed to notice upon my first inspection, I love a man with a beard.

He asked to buy me a drink, what my number is, of my name. All he got was another kiss before I left, his number saved in my phone as 'Frog Prince'. Let me remind you again of my state of intoxication. Despite this, shagging in a club toilets isn't what I wanted but I believed at the time that it was for him. I still don't know whether he wanted it or not.

And that was it. That was the first time we met.


End file.
